The head of the orchestra
is the Kapellmeister
whose massive truncheon,
like thunder, hits the naked, pissed on concrete.

Sun,
don’t swallow the passerby
are you accusing me of transience, of tardiness
don’t stagger around like the poisoned sewer water.

Let me walk in pace

Towards the softness of the morning, whitened sun
like some clock, the sun measures the hours
with ancient precision
like on the clavier, my feet mingle the sidewalk
the asphalt is a hit in the middle.
cloven.
here and there, I hear a bat of footsteps behind me.

The world can be horrible, but not dirty.
In all that disgust, I kept my good taste
you are nobody and nothing,
and the yellow bug crawls over you,
and each of her prong points a finger to you

You, you – pathetical, obsessive, neurological, what else ..
yes .. soft
and
weak
I cried and was
rain
stream
light
the river
sea
the ocean
I laughed and was
am amid the cold, vacant garden,
wet laundry, dirty glasses and broken mirrors
of a vagrant fool
with the bumpy ears.

Let me scream

You expelled me into the living pasture
you expelled me out of the gates of hell
to serve as a faithful slave girl towards the ground

I don’t hear my verses, nor the sound of their loveliness
neither the sleepless sea
It just wonders my whole life through…
those people who persists in waiting to die
no escape from clutches of death
Judas kissing at Getsemani

Dare its ravel by the road tween the kingdoms
Gallop, my horse. Whence this voice, on seven waters of yours
standing flash dewdrops thirsty
In the entrails, a hell grows the chalk-white arrows
I’m buoyant. In bliss,
I tread, brazen-soled,
Gallop.

Be lost, be distant, between dream and life
all the fires extinguished in the hearths
all the dead who believe they are coming into this world
lives equally

As were all the other evils that I hugged
as were all the other evils that have surrounded me
of that low ascent, you fountain with bashful wounds
midway upon the journey gripped by cruelty’s serpents
as I had all along on my back

Let me kill you

Turn yourself back to re-behold my foreign blood
eternally lost children for the monsters that greeted them
since in ill-doing through strange patterns of my childhood’s Carne vale

Where witches go riding into which holes they go
from the bales of fear my private lunatic changes me
little Quasimodo
with Huckleberry Finn’s quiet voice

To start conversing beneath the soil,
watching death through a kaleidoscope,
the way it was lifted by the movie directors
and transplanted onto a movie screen.
In the opacity of the grave, there is water,
and gifts from the deceased one’s kinfolk
there is a lid which each of the departed –
once their eyes get used to the darkness,
that is – knows how to open.

Such suicidal maudlinism
from a vainglorious extraordinarium,
contemplating life and scribing
butterfingered sentences
Could it be said that you have managed retain
your catchpenny vanity even here and now?

I was inhumed with a hoard of quills and ink
Hence a misdirected bullet
I cannot bear to bid adieu sans the drama,
brought glad tidings to the world.
Extolling the sperm of Schiller and Whitman

O mine mister man O’Neil!
You grazing on the Irish pastures;
your entire life you wanted to be a simple shepherd,
and detach yourself from the homeland
that made you dedicate a stylized,
though dull prose dealing with wandering, wanderers, garbage collectors on an odyssey, Odysseys on the garbage heap of the world, you whose mother wanted you to be a priest!

You celebrated nicotine addicts
thinking I don’t belong among you
you who had your landed estates,
printing presses and titles,
oh how outraged you are by my novel
which would, had it ever been written,
outshine all of those burning thoughts
brought to you by a gust of wind,
which you fruitlessly call inspiration.

A seemingly impenetrable wall.
to the very end of the Earth and back.
the Earth is the Earth.
it belongs to the Living more than it belongs to the Dead.
their voices freed of the dark tone of cymbals
caused by the loamy walls

Reverberations lag behind the initial stroke,
rippling through the stagnant air
in the vast cave of the famous dead’s burning thoughts.
hordes of extras are shouting from the darkness;
murmurs, muttering, coughing and disapprovals
are heard, mixing with hysterical laughter
coming from the Department of Music&Theatre.

Startup the lights, antagonists!
let there be Music!
the Dance of Death commenced to the sound
of a cacophonous piano
brilliantly commingling variations to Salieri.
as the tempo accelerated unwaveringly,
Mozart kept flooring the piano pedals
as if they belonged on a priceless car.
his diminutive skull and compact hands
alternately rising and falling,
he guzzled from an empty bottle,
cackling, basking in the luminescence
of lanterns supplied by the archangels,
spilling over the entire gambling hall.

Clapping their metacarpals and phalanges
this crepitation lent rhythm to the eerie waltz,
fellow artists, write!
compose an ode, dancing to the rhythm with such skill!
get your bones clapping and your pens scraping,
smear the ink across your cranial bones!
here we are, performing for you the Dance of Death –
perform for us the story of a life!
bring out your musty quills,
ladies and gentlemen and with those marvellous
brains of yours – laden with letters, quills, brushes and paints
as they all undoubtedly are – highlight the wax figures’ tragedies.
grant them minuscule lampion houses to cram their meek lives into, dress them in patchwork quilts or golden harem pants;
make them heroes or cowards, thieves, traitors,
moralists and/or decent folk.

The Death’s Replica:

Let your quills glide as we,
borne by this eerie waltz, glide and lend rhythm.
we entertain you, resembling those models who,
weary of posing,
start pitching apples at each other
in order to keep their spirits awake;
and thus, seduced by the lyres
and the naked bodies wrapped in rugs
covered in Persian patterns,
those beauties maintain their perfect
comeliness devoid of boredom!

Hark the two ribalds!
‘Tis no dance, – ’tis no art, but a mass that accompanies our toils.

At midbrain,
shorthand words word more words
a tongue-tied rope of words strangler
from tongue’s taste bud saliva through the throat

But there’s an arched jewelled pendant to catch the last mouth rinse
and Technicolor to x-ray the red-handed tongue

Me the old Judge of eternal hatred,
as Cernuda, once wrote in a verse.
but a little tired,
from a decade of merging and melting of eternal
two-faceness.
circular cycles, giving up the ghost, forlonness,

a short, tight strum,
as-is,
worth the reed,
the sap blood of living things has found
and will ink a new font
in what’s left of the human hour.

FILM: Film’s the mad black Easter egg
for a great many people.
Under Phoenix brood, inhaling the smokes
of flesh &n’ blood.
Freudian, drowning in the human average,
id hearing the threat of being lock’t-in.
All set to a one-song opera.
Damn good stuff.

mediate on and harvest
to my level of capability
from these lighten bolts disguised as roses,
these fences made from prism glass,
these marrows which no bone
of the human or the universe could turn aside:

But then, again, isn’t the key sum of all things best played on a harp made of pyrite, snakes &n’ roses caught in the strum?

Wilhelm Friedman was spat upon to the point of pain.
A boozehound died poor… They then admit…
The dude hit the clavier, like the buckish
bios of notable rock stars.
Oy vey, there was a movie as well,
I think the title of it is, in fact,
Wilhelm Friedman, where he
suffers and struggles
He is the father, we are all his children’ (OH GOD!!!!)
but with all those flies, fleas and planktons
that make up life and make up us humans,
like a living organism, dead centre in that life itself.
the habitus of Friedman Bach.
A remarkable musician, an unrivalled composer,
but a heavy, heavy drinker.

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